


Midnight

by Abubble124



Category: Keeper of the Lost Cities Series - Shannon Messenger
Genre: Childhood Friends, Cussing, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Gay, I Will Go Down With This Ship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:14:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29147280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abubble124/pseuds/Abubble124
Summary: "You don't want me, I'm all sorts of messed up,""I like messed up,""Not my type of messed up,""Especially your type of messed up,"Or: Keefe and Fitz's friendship until it becomes not a friendship. Also, I know the tag says cussing but it's not so bad it's only the F word and literally who has avoided a fic for cussing ever.
Relationships: Keefe Sencen/Fitz Vacker
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Midnight

Midnight. It was midnight. Keefe loved midnight, all his windows open so he could smell the outside, blankets piled up onto him because having the windows open is cold, the sound of the air and the stars and the leaves on the tree outside his window, the fact that it was the one time of day (night?) when his father couldn't touch him. Even in the Elite levels. You can't run away from the forever ringing imparter calls of doom, but nobody calls at midnight, especially about failure. (Even though Keefe was second in his class in the silver levels, the ringing is merciless). Midnight. It is somehow tomorrow and today at the same time. But what Keefe liked the most about midnight was not the capricious shadows that lined the walls, nor was it the content feeling of knowing you're on the brink of sleep. What Keefe liked about midnight was the boy pressed up next to him, perfectly content to stare at the ceiling as the light streams across it, the windows open, huddled together in the cold. And on this dutiful night, this boy rolls over in the bed that is big for them but not big enough for the blankets, and mumbles under his breath in his crisp accent into Keefe's ear;

'Tell me a story,"

Keefe Sencen did not always like Fitz Vacker. As it turns out, it is very difficult to like the boy that your father wants you to be. It's very difficult to sit through lunches with the son your father wishes he had. Keefe's friendship with Fitz wasn't born under normal circumstances. It was the competition formed by one father, and grudging respect formed by the other. But this story doesn't start with fathers, it starts with sons, and more importantly, it starts with Basequest.

"Hey. Keefe. Keefe. Keefe. Keefe," Keefe turns around, half out of obligation, half out of curiosity. First-year Fitz is leaning next to his open locker, hit chin tipped up slightly, his voice cracking on the second 'Keefe' due to his growing older-ness. Keefe walks towards him, not sure if he should focus his eyes on the grown or hold eye contact. He holds his gaze on Fitz for a second before glancing to a squadron of Second Year girls huddled across the hall together, also pointedly gazing at Fitz.

He could have a hopeful now if he wanted.

"Basequest this afternoon," Fitz says, pulling a book out of his locker. It is not a question, it's a demand.

"What?" Keefe asks. The girls across the hall giggle. Keefe watches as Fitz drags his gaze over to them.

He also knows that he can have a hopeful now if he wants. He doesn't appear to care.

"You know? Base-y base-y, quest-ey quest-ey," Keefe blinks at him a few times. "What was your childhood?" Keefe flinches. He wants to say something. He doesn't. A look passes across Fitz's face (Keefe hadn't manifested yet, but in retrospect, he knows it's pity).

The joke was never made again. "I'll teach you the rules. Meet me here after school, we'll use my home crystal," at this point he's aware that Fitz was told to invite him, but it warms him inside anyway. Fitz pulls the last of his books from his locker and shuts it hastily, before bounding down the hall. The girl gaggle disperses. A stray piece of paper hangs out of his locker, the only thing holding it in place is the top right corner held by the closing door. Keefe pulls it out. It's a menu to some Atlantis restaurant. He glances farther down the hallway, Fitz is nowhere to be seen. Keefe shrugs and shoves it into the bottom of his bag.

Needless to say, he was taught Basequest. And one game played turned into two, into three, and grudging respect turned into friendship. A year passes, Fitz has figured out that the girls gaggle because of his last name, because of the looks passed down through generations, and not because of him. Nobody fawns over Fitz, they fawn over Vacker. The two of them are lying on Fitz's bed. Fitz has just turned fourteen, Keefe is a little past thirteen. Fitz has manifested. Keefe is waiting, hoping, yearning. Biana had painted Fitz's ceiling with glow in the dark paint, and they were trying to count the little sparkly stars. The stars would be gone by the time of Sophie Foster, fading with time back into the blackness, but the memories would remain long after they vanished. Fitz drags his finger out above the both of them, counting under his breath. They both know he won't make it past a hundred or so, but neither of them says anything.

"You don't have to do this, you know?" Keefe says, focusing his eyes on the ceiling, not bringing himself to look at Fitz.

"Do what?" Fitz mumbles under his breath, drowsy with sleep, his hand falls by his side. He has not yet stayed up many midnights.

"Hang around with me anymore. I know you were kind of forced on me, it's okay," Keefe can feel his voice shaking. He reaches into darkness for a joke, but his clasped palms come up empty. There is nothing Keefe can say to fill the silence.

"I wanna hang out with you," Keefe can hear the sleep in his breath as Fitz turns to face him. Keefe tears his eyes away from the ceiling to meet Fitz's eyes.

"You don't. I'm all sorts of messed up," he can feel Fitz next to him, hyper-aware of the boy trying to come up with something to say.

"I like all sorts of messed up,"

"Not my kind of messed up,"

"Especially your type of messed up," Keefe turns to say something, but Fitz has closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep. The conversation was forgotten by one party and played over and over again in the head of the other until the sides of the memory were worn like a photograph looked at one too many times.

Another year. Manifestations, BaseQuest,

Enter: Sophie Foster.

Enter: Fitzphie.

Enter: Neverseen,

Another year. And another. And a few more.

Enter: Several indestructible friendships

Exit: Alvar

(And when things finally seem like they're settling down,)

Exit: Fitzphie

He's not crying. Of course, he's not crying. He's doing homework. Of course, he's doing homework. Fucking golden boy. He leans into Fitz's doorway, holding a basket of sugary snacks in one hand, and several half-destroyed dragon stuffed animals under the other. He knows Biana has been sent by Ro and Gritzel to snake Rifflepuffs off of him (if you don't use invisibility to get snacks, what do you use it for) so he throws a handful of them over his shoulder before knocking on the doorframe.

"Yo. Golden boy," Fitz looks up from his homework, something twisting in his eyes. Keefe is too far away from him to discern what it is.

"Something you couldn't say in an imparter call?" Fitz says, running his hands through his hair. This makes something twist inside of Keefe's guts, but he can't place it.

"I can't come over and see my best friend?" Fitz rolls his eyes.

"I guess… Did you bring snacks?"

"Of course, I'm not a monster," he walks over to Fitz's desk and pushes aside some funky looking astronomy chart to dump a pile of sweets onto it. He chucks the dragons onto Fitz's bed, before perching on the corner of the desk. "Rifflepuffs or Mallowmelt?" He asks, but Fitz is ahead of him, opening up a Rifflepuff to shove Mallowmelt inside. Fitz's comfort food.

Bingo.

He picks up a Rifflepuff and shoves it into his mouth. His eyes land on a strange-looking worksheet. He picks it up to inspect it.

"Don't," Fitz says. Keefe turns the paper sideways, and then upside down.

"What is this?"

"A human thing… Algebra," Fitz says, "I was trying to be cool for Sophie," His voice cracks on her name, but he clears his throat in what Keefe thinks is supposed to be nonchalant. Fitz seems to have forgotten the whole empath thing. Something that is decidedly not nonchalancy flies at him. It hurts Keefe in a way he didn't think he could be hurt. He crumples the paper and tosses it into Fitz's trash can.

"No," Keefe says.

"No?"

"I am not allowing you to do this. I will get you out of this hole that you and Sophie tug together. Just because you dug a grave doesn't mean you need to lie in it, sweetheart," he picks up the dragons and places them on top of Fitz's dresser. He makes sure not to glance at Fitz on the "sweetheart", but he's not sure why.

"That made no sense," Fitz says, shoving the last of his Mallowpuff into his mouth. "What are those for and where did you get them?" He says, gesturing at the dragons.

"Got them off of Dex. The triplets were going to throw them out, but I figured we could put them into better use," he goes back to Fitz's desk and digs through the bottom drawer for the throwing knives he knows Fitz keeps there. He hands one to Fitz and his eyes widen.

"No."

"Yes. Throw the knife. Stab the fucking dragon I dare you,"

"Why?" Fitz turns to face him, the light catching on his eyelashes.

"You know why."

"Humor me."

"The worst kind of fine is when you're pretending to be," this catches Fitz off guard. He stands up and nervously throws the knife in the vague direction of the dragons. Something lifts off of Fitz's face, a cloud you only notice when it's gone.

The knife falls several feet short "You can do better and we both know it," Keefe says, chucking a knife as hard as he can. It pierces through the face of one of the dragons. Fitz snorts. Keefe grins. Fitz holds out his hand for another knife. It sails through the air before Keefe can blink. A knife goes through the heart of the second dragon. Another snort. Another smile.

Keefe lay in bed that evening, replaying every smile, every gesture, every time the light crossed his face so that the teal in his eyes swirled. Midnight comes. Several hours of going over every moment, every second. He thinks that when Fitz is in the room, the lines blur around him, and he comes into focus. He thinks that maybe this is what Sophie thought when she thought about him. Then he thinks that maybe he doesn't like Sophie Foster, and perhaps he never did.

Oh, he thinks.

Fuck. He thinks.

Another year passes,  
Enter: Silver Level Admissions.

Enter: Silver Level Acceptance.

Enter: two dorm rooms across from each other.

It is midnight, as it usually is. Keefe knows Fitz is awake because light is streaming under his door when the rest of the lights are out. He digs around in his desk drawers for something containing sugar. A single Rifflepuff surfaces, a product of a care package sent by Dex. Under it, there's a series of pride flags that Sophie doodled during study hall for him after he told her what he felt about boys. (He didn't tell her about Fitz. He hasn't told anyone about Fitz.) His eyes catch on the rainbow one, and his breath hitches.

Tonight is the night.

He doesn't knock. He knows he doesn't need to. Fitz's hair is sticking up in a million different directions, he's on the floor using the foot of his bed as a backrest, staring blankly at a book with a green cover.

"I need to tell you something," Keefe says. Fitz blinks several times, his eyes coming back into focus. He gropes around on the ground for a bookmark, finding only another smaller book. He shrugs and places the smaller book inside the bigger one before setting it gently on his bed. His smile is wary, his eyes are tired, he's wearing an oversized hoodie that he stole off of Sophie. Keefe practically melts.

"Come hither. Speak to me of your misfortunes," he glances at the Rifflepuff "and share the carbohydrates," Keefe unwraps the Rifflepuff and breaks it in half, handing one over to Fitz. Fitz bumps his knee against Keefe's. A rush of some sort of emotion fills him, but he's not sure if it's Fitz's or his. He scoots away a little. Fitz's eyes widen.

"I'm not going to touch you, because Empath, and I don't want to feel whatever you feel when I tell you this," Fitz's eyes widen larger. Keefe can feel something big in the air.

"Okay," Fitz says, squinting his eyes slightly. "Is this about the time I copied your homework without asking because I'm really sorry I did that it was just-"

"No. This isn't about that. You don't have to ask to copy my homework," his words come out rushed and angry. Fitz shrinks back a little. "I'm sorry. I just. I'm gay, Fitz. I like boys. I want to marry a boy," another thing crosses Fitz's face, Keefe can't figure out what it is. It's gone before he can investigate any longer.

"Me too," this catches Keefe by surprise. He can feel something warm and sticky rising in his cheeks, "I like boys too," they hold eyes for what Keefe thinks is a long period of time, before Fitz clears his throat, shoving the rest of his Rifflepuff into his mouth. "I should go to bed,"

"Yeah," Keefe gets up, dusting invisible crumbs off his pants. "Good night Fitz,"

"Goodnight Keefe,"

Exit: Silver Year,

Enter: Gold year

It's midnight. It's always midnight at this point. Keefe is staring at the ceiling, wallowing in his own self-pity. His mind runs over and over again through every time he's ever talked to Fitz, every time their hands have ever touched. The lights are out, but the moon is big and his curtains are open, so he can see the contours of his furniture against the wall. He's running his fingers over a menu to a restaurant in Atlantis that has since closed. The paper faded, the words blended together with age, but Keefe could recite it from memory if he wanted door bursts open. He doesn't check to see who it is. He knows it's Fitz.

"I can't do this anymore," Keefe sits up, tossing the menu aside. Fitz is holding something in his hand, but he can't see what it is.

"Do what?" the lights turn on, Keefe squints into the light. Fitz chucks a stuffed Dragon with a significant number of holes at him. Keefe catches it and looks it over.

"Can't you see? Fucking empath. Can't you feel it?" Fitz waves his hands around in the air. "I love you, you dumbass. For years now I've loved you. I can't keep being your friend like this. It's tearing me apart. I can't do it. I won't do it," Fitz looks prepared to keep going, but Keefe gets out of bed abruptly, throwing the blankets off of him.

"Stop it," Keefe says, Fitz hiccups, his eyes preparing to fill themselves with tears. "I love you too, idiot. And I have and I will, so stop it," Keefe reaches Fitz, suddenly hyper-aware of how he looks like he hasn't slept in a considerable amount of time. Neither of them is anywhere close to sure what to do in this situation. Keefe takes Fitz's hand, feeling something welling inside of him. He doesn't know this feeling, but he likes the way it sits inside of him. Fitz brings his face considerably closer to Keefe's.

"You, love me too?"

"I do. I love you too," Keefe closes the gap between them.

They're kissing. It is the feeling of the air after the rain, it is the resolving note of a song, it is the feeling of a midnight, of the potential it has and the potential it's already used.

Fitz sleeps in Keefe's bed that night.

And the next. And the next. And the next. It is on one such night, that as Keefe stares at the ceiling, tucked under the arm of his boyfriend, that he hears a whisper in his ear.

"Tell me a story,"

And so he does


End file.
